


Despite The Odds (We Keep On Breathing)

by demonsonthemoon



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Arospec Bucky, Caedromantic Bucky Barnes, Cap!Sam, I'm mad at Steve's ending and it shows, Kissing, M/M, Panic Attacks, Trauma, post!Endgame, there's so much trauma people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 11:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19355689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonsonthemoon/pseuds/demonsonthemoon
Summary: Sam didn't really know why Bucky stayed with him, after. Turned out he was pretty okay when he wasn't brainwashed and hellbent on killing him. Turned out Sam trusted him. Turned out maybe they could help each other.





	Despite The Odds (We Keep On Breathing)

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Aggressively Arospec Week 2019. Basically I wanted to explore what trauma can mean for your sense of self/how you identify. I'm not in any way a specialist on anything relating to mental health, so take this with a pinch of salt I guess.  
> Also it's my first time writing from Sam's POV! Woop!

Sam didn't really know why Bucky stayed with him, after.

Maybe he thought that making sarcastic remarks at each other for months on end because they might be on the run together but they didn't have to _like it_ was a form of bonding.

Maybe he thought they could help each other through the shared trauma of being left behind by their best friend right after having been brought back to life.

Maybe he didn't have anywhere else to go.

Maybe he didn't have anyone else to be other than Captain America's shadow.

Whatever the reason, the fact of the matter was that Bucky Barnes was following him around a whole lot. And, at this point, Sam felt like it was probably too late to ask why.

The thing was, it wasn't bad. Taking up the mantle/shield of Captain America meant that his life was on the line even more often than it used to be, and having someone watching out for him was invaluable. And the fact that it was Bucky Barnes doing the watching... Well, it turned out that that wasn't so bad either. Turned out the guy was pretty okay when he wasn't brainwashed and hellbent on killing him.

Sam didn't know everything that had happened to him, but he knew enough. And he knew it was a lot. And despite all of that, Bucky had turned into a mostly quiet man, one who got too sarcastic when he was either in a great or a terrible mood. He had been used as a weapon and killed dozens of people, and know he had a small smile he reserved for flowers peeking through concrete and dogs who tried to sniff him. It seemed to Sam that something had settled into him during his time in Wakanda. It was a fragile equilibrium, he knew that. That's always what it was. But he also thought it was probably much more than Bucky had let himself hope for.

Maybe Sam was projecting onto Bucky a little bit. Or maybe a lot. Sam was an adult, he could admit it to himself. Inhale, exhale, there you go. He was glad that Bucky was there with him. Because his own equilibrium was not so much fragile as holding on through duct tape and prayers. It was just... superheroing was lonely work. It didn't come with an adjustment period, and it was definitely not the kind of job where you could call in sick on bad mental health days. Sam wasn't living the kind of life where he had time to mourn. He also wasn't living the kind of life that could help him forget.

So, yeah. He was glad Bucky was there with him. He was glad someone was there to remember. Even when the guy was being an _asshole_.

“For fuck's sake! I told you to stop doing that!” Sam groaned, pushing aside the man he had just punched in the face and stepping over the one who had been shot by a bullet which had flown exactly a handspan away from Sam's cheek.

“I told you not to move,” Bucky said over their comm system, sounding totally unrepentant.

“Yeah, while a guy was trying to kick my knee in. It's not like I had much of a choice.”

He kept moving as he talked, shield held up in front of him in case of gunfire. There was always gunfire. Except when it was magic. Sam much prefered the gunfire to magic.

He kept moving, knocking a few more people unconscious and shooting one in the leg. It wasn't because he had picked up Steve's shield that he had to pick up his stupid habit of never carrying a gun.

He had finally reached the room where hostages were being held, and from what he could hear, the people inside had noticed something was wrong. That wasn't good. It meant they would be prepared for him, which usually meant _a lot_ of gunfire.

“Gonna need some help here,” Sam said into his comms, voice low.

“You always do,” came Bucky's reply. Sam rolled his eyes. He had no idea why Bucky was in such a good mood when they were fighting terrorists. The guy was weird.

He also hadn't given him any information on what form his backup would take, but the sound of a window breaking was as good a sign as any that Sam should kick in the door and punch anything that looked like it wanted to kill him.

By the time he went to untie the hostages, his hands were shaking from the adrenaline. He could feel a dozen bruises starting to form all over his body, but right now the pain was an easily ignored buzz. He did his best to smile in a non-threatening way and reassure everyone that they were safe.

As usual, Bucky hung back for this part. By now, most civilians recognized Sam's uniform immediately, although there had been a transition period where a lot of people had awkward questions about Captain America turning black and sprouting wings. But Bucky was much less of a public figure, and his dark-coloured tac gear didn't exactly made him inviting. That, and Bucky was always on high alert after a fight. There was a stillness to him that was all concentration and held-back power. Sam used to be afraid of it too, so he knew what those civilians were feeling. Although, nowadays, he had to admit it was one of the few things that made him feel safe.

  
*****

 

Going on missions together all across the world meant staying in hotels with very thin walls, and Bucky had a supersoldier's hearing, so it really was no surprise to hear a knock on the door after Sam had woken up from a nightmare that had launched him right into a panic attack.

“You can come in,” Sam struggled to say over his ragged breathing. _Fuck_ , he hated nightmares. He nearly never got panic attacks during the day anymore, knew a dozen tricks to force himself to relax before they fully developed. But his sleeping self never remembered any of them, not when he was faced with conflated images of Steve stepping back in time and Riley falling from the sky and himself always helpless and left behind.

Bucky stepped into the room. The cold efficiency of his fighting mode – Sam did his best not to call it the Winter Soldier mode, not even jokingly – had disappeared. Instead, Sam was faced by a man in a soft white shirt and sweatpants, mussed hair falling over his face. The first time this had happened he had held himself small, light on his feet. Ready to bolt, but still making the effort to offer his help. Sam had been more touched by that than he had ever been able to express.

That night he was less tense. He knew this was allowed now. He knew this was welcome. Needed, maybe, though Sam had yet to admit that.

“Do you want to talk?” Bucky asked softly. “Or should I just keep watch?”

Sam didn't like being alone after nightmares. It didn't help that the new ones had abandonment trauma spelled out all over them. Sometimes just having Bucky stay in the room was enough for him to fall back asleep, knowing he wasn't alone, knowing he was safe. Bucky didn't sleep a lot. Didn't need to.

“Have to calm down first,” Sam replied. His breathing was beginning to deepen, a little, but it still wasn't comfortable. He could feel a headache starting. Panic attacks were the worst, because they made him even more tired than he already was from lack of sleep. _Fuck_.

Bucky pulled the chair out from under the desk in a corner of the room and sat down. It should have been weird, Sam sitting in bed, knees drawn up, head resting on his crossed arms, struggling to breathe, and Bucky watching him. But there was no judgment in Bucky's gaze. No pity, no overbearing concern. Just a quiet acknowledgment of Sam's presence and of his struggle, and Sam didn't know how he had managed without it all this time.

Slowly, Sam got his breathing back under control. He could still feel his heart beating fast and his head pounding in the same rhythm. He looked up.

Bucky was still there, watching him with the same soft and neutral expression. Sam felt something twist in his chest.

“You'd figured it out, hadn't you?” he let out, too tired to filter his thoughts.

Bucky twitched slightly, which was his equivalent of jumping in surprise, Sam figured. He probably hadn't expected the accusatory tone in Sam's voice. The accusation wasn't directed at _him_ though. Not at all.

Sam ran a hand across his face. He'd started this, and he needed to see it through. Seeing from his nightmares, this unresolved business wasn't going to let go of him any time soon if he kept ignoring it.

“When Steve...” he hated the way his voice still caught on the name. Like he had died a death too horrible to speak of. ~~(Like Riley.)~~ But he hadn't. He had made his choice. He had lived his life. A good one. ~~(Maybe better for them not being in it.)~~ “... left. When he left, you said... You said 'I'll miss you.'”

Bucky's face was still neutral, but it had lost some of its softness.

“He was supposed to be gone for seconds. Only seconds. And when he came back... You weren't surprised, were you?”

Bucky turned his head to the side. His hair partly hid him from Sam's view. Bucky didn't let himself show negative emotions.

“Fuck, Bucky, I'm sorry, I didn't...” Sam hesitated before pushing his duvet to the side and moving forward so he could sit on the edge of the bed, facing the other man.

Bucky always asked him what he needed, but Sam had never offered the same. Bucky always looked like he would refuse. Now Sam hesitated, wanting to reach out a hand and not daring to. Staying within arm's length was his best bet, giving Bucky the opportunity to cross the gap if he wanted to.

The other man took a deep breath and turned back towards him. “Nothing to apologize for,” he said, voice flat. “You didn't do anything.

“Yeah, but I shouldn't have...” Sam started. Shouldn't have what? Hadn't he admitted just a minute ago that he needed to stop repressing all this? “Shouldn't have said it like that.”

Bucky shrugged. “You weren't wrong.”

His shoulders were hunched forward, a habit Bucky had caught to make himself look smaller, less threatening. It made him lean slightly into Sam's space. Sam tried not to read anything into that, but he had hopes.

“I... suspected. I didn't want to be right, but well.” He looked up into Sam's eyes. His gaze was intense. Focused. Dangerous.

It was the gaze of a hurt animal waiting for its chance to run.

“He wasn't the same anymore.”

There's so much that's left unsaid behind those words. How they're not the same either. How Steve hadn't been the Brooklyn kid Bucky remembered in a long time. How much it hurt that despite all of their effort none of them could go back to the way things used to be.

Steve had gone back in time, sure, but it had just been to a different future. Sam wondered, a bit cruelly, if he'd ever missed the past that Sam and Bucky had become to him.

“You should sleep,” Sam said. He stood up and put a hand forward, waiting for Bucky to carefully take it before he pulled him to his feet. Bucky didn't hesitate when Sam tugged him towards his own bed.

Sam didn't let himself think about it long enough to hesitate either.

  
*****

 

When he woke up, Sam found Bucky's arm flung across his waist and one of his legs tangled in between Sam's. When he turned his head, Bucky's eyes were still closed, although Sam felt him move just the tiniest bit, as if trying not to let it show that he was already awake.

Sam found he was okay with that. If it meant they could stay like this a while longer, he was fine with letting Bucky pretend as long as he wanted to.

It was human, after all. Most people needed physical contact, preferably some that didn't come from punches and chokeholds.

Sam was only human himself. He felt warmth spread through his body and tension fade away as he let himself melt back into a half-doze.

He knew he and Bucky trusted each other. They had to, to fight together like they did. They had to, if Bucky was going to stand watch over Sam on the days he got nightmares. But this felt like another sort of trust. This was skin on skin, but without the sweat and the blood. Vulnerability without open wounds.

This felt too damn good, and for once Sam could tell himself he wanted it enough not to listen to the voice saying it was something he didn't deserve.

So, after a minute, he opened his eyes and said “Good morning.”

Bucky opened his eyes as well, looking back at him. “Good morning.” He immediately started untangling his legs from Sam's. The movement had a controlled languor to it. It was trying too hard not to draw attention to itself.

Sam caught Bucky's right hand between his, and brought it to his lips. “Don't,” he whispered against the fingers.

Bucky froze at that. Sam had gotten pretty good at reacting quickly, what with all the getting shot at he was doing this day, so it only took that half second for panic to settle throughout his body and for him to let go of his grip.

But Bucky didn't move away. He didn't punch Sam in the face nor broke his wrist, which was a relief. Instead, he drew in a breath, and then carefully ran his thumb along the length of Sam's lower lip.

That was... a thing. A thing that... did things. To Sam.

In that moment, he realized how long it had been since he'd dated anyone or even had a casual hook-up. The constant traveling and self-endangerment that formed the core of superheroing weren't conclusive to long-term relationships, and the chance to be recognized in a club and either kidnapped or assaulted by fans was high enough to make him stay away from them.

But right then, someone was touching his lips, and that someone was safe. That someone knew who he was, knew a big part of what he'd gone through, had gone through worse, and was still here and touching him like he was a tiny bird about to fly away.

Sam opened his mouth. Bucky did the same thing, surprise on his face, his finger still resting against Sam's lip.

Sam's entire body was one tense line, thrumming with too many emotions at once. The one that ended up resonating the loudest was very simple.

He didn't want this moment to leave him behind.

Sam would have very dramatically smashed his mouth against Bucky's if he could have, but the fact that they were both still lying on their side made the manoeuvring a little more difficult than that. In the end, they met in a soft press of lips that seemed to surprise Bucky even has he leaned forward to welcome it. His hand settled carefully on the back of Sam's neck.

Sam closed his eyes.

If he'd been asked, Sam wouldn't have thought kissing Bucky Barnes would be this way. Not that he had ever considered it. … Or at least not seriously.

But this was nice, if unexpected. Slow and careful movements, warm with the edge of sleep, too soft for Sam to hold back a sigh.

Bucky pulled away first. Then Sam opened his eyes once more.

He didn't know what he had expected the look on Bucky's face to be, but this wasn't it. This was much too neutral to his taste.

“I'm sorry,” Bucky said.

Those words were enough to make cold run through Sam's body, extinguishing everything else he'd been feeling until then. How could Bucky have misunderstood the situation enough to be apologizing to _Sam_?

“You've got nothing to be sorry for,” he replied, imitating the other man and sitting up. There was now a gap between the two of them, some sort of security distance that Sam felt like a tear in his own chest. _Fuck_ , he hadn't known how badly he had been craving this kind of contact.

Bucky pulled up his knees and wrapped his arms around it. His face wasn't as much neutral anymore as tired. The kind of exhaustion that went much beyond the physical. After all, he didn't need much sleep anymore.

“I can't do this,” Bucky said, looking away.

Sam concentrated on taking long and deep breaths. He couldn't panic now. He had maybe fucked things up with the only person he trusted, he couldn't afford to panic. This wasn't about him, and he was _not_ going to make things worse.

“What? What can't you do?”

“I don't know. Relationships. Stuff. Flirting. Fucking. Anything. I can't do anything, I just...”

“Hey,” Sam started, trying to find that perfect balance between forceful and soft. He waited for Bucky to look up before he continued. “Don't say you can't do anything. You save my life on a weekly basis, that has to be worth something.”

He had hoped for a weak chuckle from that, would have settled for a sigh, but was only met with silence. Tough crowd. Sam had had some of those before.

“Why do you mean when you say you can't do those things? That you're not allowed or that you're not able to? Or something else?”

“I don't know. It doesn't feel the same way. I don't want it the same way. I don't _want it_.”

Another jolt of pure cold. Bucky hadn't wanted it.

Despite everything Sam told himself about needing not to panic, something must have shown in his eyes. Sam actually felt pretty good that his poker face wasn't yet good enough to hide the horror he felt at having been well on his way to _raping_ someone.

“Fuck, no. I didn't mean it like that. I did want _that_. I liked it. You must have felt that I liked it, right?”

“It's not that easy, man. Sometimes you're put in a situation, and the way your body reacts doesn't have anything to do with how you actually feel about it.”

“It wasn't like that! Fuck, sweetheart, it wasn't like that, I swear...”

Sam was feeling very confused right then. Also, relieved. But mostly confused, because Bucky had called him sweetheart before but only through at least five layers of irony. Never so... earnestly. And that had felt a lot like flirting. Which Sam was not going to think about because it was very inappropriate even if he probably hadn't physically violated his superheroing partner.

“Okay, good,” Sam replied, holding up his hands to show he believed Bucky. They were still sitting side by side on a bed. For some reason this made the conversation seem even weirder than it was. “That's good. What did you mean by not wanting it then?”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair. “It's weird. It's just... it's messed up. I'm messed up. I used to... I used to flirt with people all the time. I liked that. You feel that spark of attraction and you fan it, or something. It felt good. But I don't feel that anymore.”

“That's no reason to feel like you're messed up, you know. Loads of people don't like flirting or don't want to date. And kissing...” There Sam floundered a little, embarrassed. “Kissing doesn't have to be about sex. Sometimes you just need to touch someone. Sometimes it just feels nice.”

Bucky shook his head. “But I used to like it,” he insisted. There was something almost childish to his voice. Or maybe not childish. Maybe it was just innocent.

“I'm supposed to be... I know that's not how it works, but I'm supposed to be... fixed. Why can't I just...”

Bucky closed the fist of his prosthetic arm tightly. With his other hand, he covered half of his face. That was Bucky for you. Always showing you calm and control, despite the blizzard that must constantly be raging inside him.

“Hey,” Sam said softly. “Can I touch you?” He waited until Bucky nodded before slowly unfolding his prosthetic hand and sliding their fingers together. “You're right. That's not how it works. You went through a shitload of trauma, man. And the mental programming T'Challa's people took out of you was only the tip of the iceberg, right? But that's nothing to be ashamed of. Being a different person now than you were in the past is not something that has to be fixed. It's how humans work.”

“It was... It was so much easier to _get better_ when I knew what I was supposed to be aiming for. When I was just gathering memories, trying to be someone...”

 _To be someone Steve knew,_ was the sentence Sam guessed hung between them. But Steve didn't need Bucky to be his old self anymore. Steve had enough memories to fill twice what Bucky had ever lost.

Steve had never managed to forget Peggy. Would Sam and Bucky ever forget him?

“Your past self isn't necessarily better, you know? I didn't know him, but I know you now. And I would say you're a pretty okay guy.”

Sam actually earned his chuckle this time, and he squeezed Bucky's hand in response.

“What you want or don't want... It's a big deal to some people. I get that. But it doesn't have to be. And sometime it changes. And that's okay. Sometimes it changes because of stuff that happens to you. And sometimes the stuff isn't okay. But the change is. Sometimes things change back to the way they were and sometimes they don't. There's no telling whether one or the other is any kind of recovery. And all of this doesn't have to be anything you define yourself by. But it can.”

Bucky sighed, letting himself fall back against the bed's headboard. “I guess I'm lucky the new Captain America has a degree in psychology.”

Sam let out a quick laugh. “Nah. This isn't anything I learned in class. You're just lucky I care about you.”

“Yeah, actually. I am.”

Bucky squeezed his hand, ever so softly, with fingers that could tear a door off its hinges in a second, and Sam thought:

_I am too._

**Author's Note:**

> If you like my fanfics and have some spare change in your wallet, here is my ko-fi account: https://www.ko-fi.com/meenilevi  
> You can also check it out to see the original work I do besides fanfics!


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